


White Day

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>despite the comfortable familiarity of their aggressive snark they might be even better at this</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Day

**Author's Note:**

> for aomido week day 4: holidays. they're ~16

The fourteenth of March is a Saturday; Daiki’s home alone. His parents are both putting extra time in at the office, leaving him the full run of the house and honestly he doesn’t feel like doing much—maybe going out and seeing if anyone’s up for a pickup game later, but the morning is for staying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, and maybe turning on the TV to catch some sports highlights. Well, it is until his phone rings. He lets it go to voice mail, but the caller’s persistent, so he picks it up a second time without glancing at caller ID.

“Yeah?”

“Were you asleep?” says Midorima’s voice, that casually-irritated tone he does so well evident even on the phone.

“No,” says Aomine through a yawn. “But why shouldn’t I be, anyway?”

“Today’s White Day,” says Midorima. “Is it an appropriate time to give you your gifts?”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, my parents won’t be home until later…” he’s half-joking, trying to ruffle Midorima up further (after all, it’s pretty damn fun and pretty damn easy).

“Oh. Okay, that’s good,” says Midorima, and then Aomine hears the beep that signifies the end of the call.

He presses the phone harder against his ear even though he knows he won’t accomplish anything other than getting the glass greasier, but it’s easier than letting it fall right now because whoa. It’s not that Midorima is reluctant when it comes to their sexual activities; it’s not even as if he never instigates—he’s quite enthusiastic when he gets going, and he’s definitely pushed them farther than Aomine was expecting to go a few times. But still, deciding this far in advance is a little bit unexpected. Aomine hadn’t really meant what he’d said on Valetine’s Day about getting a good White Day present; hell, he’d forgotten all about the day itself. And even though he doesn’t think Midorima feels pressured into doing this, he might be, and Aomine really doesn’t want that—he sighs and flops back onto the pillow, placing his phone on the nightstand. He probably ought to get dressed and ready, even if they’re not going anywhere and even if they do end up taking their clothes off. The doorbell rings as Aomine’s buckling his belt; he has to race downstairs to answer it and when he does Midorima’s standing there with a bouquet of yellow roses. 

“Hello,” says Midorima, practically thrusting the roses into Aomine’s arms.

“Hey,” says Aomine. “Thanks.”

He leans in to give Midorima a kiss; Midorima’s hand reaches up to touch his face and then he rubs, hard at Aomine’s cheek. “Ow.”

“You have toothpaste on your face,” says Midorima.

When he’s satisfied with how clean Aomine’s face is, he brushes over the area softly and then leans in for a kiss. It’s quick, but Aomine can’t adjust his grip on the roses fast enough to pull him closer. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” says Aomine, leading him into the kitchen.

Midorima doesn’t say anything; Aomine opens a cabinet. There’s no vase. Aomine sighs. He’s never paid attention to where they’re stored; he knows his parents have some—and then, there they are in the next cabinet. 

“But I do,” says Midorima. “Just because I don’t insinuate things all the time doesn’t mean I don’t want them.”

“I know,” says Aomine as he turns on the faucet.

“But thank you,” Midorima says, and Aomine almost misses it with the roar of the water cascading into the vase.

“Couldn’t hear you,” he says, throwing a grin and a wink in Midorima’s direction.

Midorima rolls his eyes. “I changed my mind.”

He’s losing his touch; he can’t hold a frown and the smile is bleeding through even into his words—and his expression looks almost soft through over the flowers as Aomine arranges them in the vase. Aomine’s cheeks suddenly flare like a flame from a match beginning to eat at charcoal drenched in lighter fluid, heating the air around his face. 

And then he’s pinning Midorima to the greasy counter, one hand fisted in his hair, grinding his hips against Midorima’s thigh (God, his legs are so long) and Midorima pulls him closer and despite the comfortable familiarity of their aggressive snark they might be even better at this—there’s more of a rush; Aomine’s entire body is heating up now and so is Midorima’s; their hands are fisting tighter and they’re pressing their bodies harder, closer. Aomine breaks the kiss for a second, and Midorima’s lips trail a line down Aomine’s chin and neck.

“You want to do it in here?” Aomine says. 

Midorima pauses. “Not really.”

Their trip to Aomine’s bedroom is relatively short, but it feels long because they’re not doing anything other than holding hands and Aomine craves more contact, keeps trying to shove an evasive Midorima against the wall, and he’s about to say something about how wasn’t this his present or something when they finally reach his bedroom and Midorima practically tosses him onto the bed. He pushes Aomine down almost aggressively (and his mouth certainly is taking the lead, holy shit) and Aomine’s usually the one on top but he could definitely get used to this.

Midorima works quickly; neither of them has ever had much patience for foreplay (as much as they enjoy each other’s bodies and winding each other up, there are definite drawbacks to going slow). 

Aomine’s hands are under Midorima’s shirt, pinching at his abs and sides, and Midorima’s methodically working at his belt (maybe he shouldn’t have decided to put one on, but watching Midorima get impatient with it is too much fun). Midorima finally gets it undone, and now that he can spare a hand he reaches up under Aomine’s shirt, hands skimming over Aomine’s stomach and sternum and between his nipples and oh, God. His other hand is playing with Aomine’s fly, friction between layers of clothing and skin, and Aomine can’t recognize the sounds coming from his mouth right now.

He feels hot all over, like someone’s pressing him closer and closer to a gigawatt lightbulb and he can’t resist reaching out of his own accord. Midorima’s face is flushed, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses—Aomine fumbles with his hands and knocks them off, toward the floor; Midorima swears under his breath (he should do that more often; the way it sounds is so fucking hot) and when he looks up those brilliant green eyelashes are unshielded, sticking out against the flush of his face.

Finally, finally Midorima’s got his pants and underwear yanked down, exposing Aomine’s cock—he doesn’t give it much of a glance before taking the tip into his mouth. And it feels so good, like relief from and escalation of the building tension in the pit of his stomach both at once. Midorima’s taking him in slowly, a little at a time, enough to really enjoy it—this, here, is the good kind of slow. Aomine tangles his fingers in Midorima’s hair as his cock slides deeper in, holding on as he tries to spread his legs despite the restrictiveness of his jeans. Midorima’s sucking and licking is so fucking good, driving Aomine near the brink almost too quickly.

And then he opens his mouth; Aomine’s cock slides out, bringing him just a little bit closer to the edge—but Midorima doesn’t make an attempt to put him back in. Aomine whines—then the sound gets cut off by a sharper noise in the back of his throat, when Midorima’s tongue moves backwards over Aomine’s balls and the sensitive skin behind them. Aomie fists his hand tighter in Midorima’s hair, curling his toes—God, that feels fantastic. Midorima keeps going back, torturously slow—and he’s not stopping, licking a circle around the edge of

Aomine’s hole, and then inside—Aomine groans.

“Midorima—fuck—”

His tongue is warm and wet and slippery and it feels so damn good; Aomine’s squirming under him trying to make it better, trying to push himself to release. A few seconds later, Midorima’s tongue slides out. Aomine lolls against the bed, trying to catch his breath, but he doesn’t have time; Midorima takes his cock in his mouth balls-deep again, and fuck. He can’t take it; he comes without the presence of mind to even shout an incoherent warning.

When Midorima’s mouth pulls away, Aomine pulls him up and into a quick kiss. Midorima’s face is flushed and his hair is tangled; he lies on top of Aomine for a few seconds, panting, before rolling off. The bulge in his pants is obvious; he makes a move toward the bedside table and the lube. 

“Let me,” says Aomine.

“You don’t need to; it’s your—”

Aomine cuts him off with a hand over his mouth. “I like getting you off.”

Midorima flushes darker (God, is he cute sometimes) and Aomine grabs the lube off the nightstand, pours some into his hand, and shoves it into Midorima’s pants. His cock is already hard and throbbing; he makes a strangled sound that turns into a sigh when Aomine kisses him. His mouth is sticky still; his teeth smack against Aomine’s with an awkward sound. Aomine fists his cock, pumping slowly to start him off—this won’t take long. He only has to increase his pace a little bit as Midorima lifts his hips, straining up against him before he comes all over Aomine’s hand and wrist.

Midorima makes a disgusted sound as Aomine withdraws his hand and wipes it on his shirt.

“We’ll wash up later,” Aomine says, throwing his arm around Midorima’s waist.

Midorima wrinkles his nose but snuggles closer anyway, muttering something about cleanliness and luck that Aomine doesn’t quite catch and chooses to ignore anyway. Sleep is more important.


End file.
